


Come out ye black and tans

by Useful_Oxymoron



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anglo-Irish Relations, Discord: Bellamione Coven, Established Relationship, F/F, Humor, Ireland, Northern Irish Troubles, Obsessive Behavior, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 03:27:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Useful_Oxymoron/pseuds/Useful_Oxymoron
Summary: A long suffering Hermione has to deal with yet another one of her wife's many obsessions. This one related to the outcome of a Genealogy report.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 11
Kudos: 98





	Come out ye black and tans

**Author's Note:**

> Humorous bit slapped together for the Bellamione Cult St. Patrick's Day event. Not to be taken seriously. :)

Living with Bellatrix was, for Hermione at least, a constant adventure. Not in the very least by Bellatrix’ obsessive nature. Over the years, Hermione had had to deal with a myriad of hobbies and fandoms, all often as quickly discarded as they’d been picked up. Their attic was filled to the brim with memorabilia, figures, books, objects, paints and assorted goods as sometimes Bellatrix would elect to pick up something again.

Generally, all of this was a lot healthier than obsession with blood-purity of certain charismatic evil dark wizards. That said, Hermione cursed herself for suggesting to have a Genealogy report of their families made up on a lark after reading an ad in the newspaper.

The first sign that something was off was the sound of cheery folk music blasting through the entire mansion. Once arriving at Bellatrix’ favourite sitting room, she found her wife dancing around singing along with the music.

“Come out ye black and tans, come out and fight me like a man!   
Show your wife how you won medals down in Flanders!   
Tell her how the IRA made you run like hell away!  
From the green and lovely lanes of Killashandra!”

Hermione was gobsmacked to see that the sitting room was adorned with Irish flags, including the Starry Plough, the walls, while bookshelves, tables and the windowsills were dotted with plastic leprechauns, along with several wood-carved celtic symbols. For all intents and purposed, it seemed as if Bellatrix had raided an Irish tourist gift shop. Of course, ever since introduced to the advent of online purchasing, the weirdest things had been arriving at the mansion.

“Wait,” Hermione said, after making her way to the record playing and turning it off. “What is this?!”

Bellatrix, clad in a bright green cloak which clashed horribly with her black attire and hair, whirled around and narrowed her eyes. “Ah, the English oppressor has arrived!”

Hermione blinked. “What?”

“You start by killing our music and end with killing our culture!” Bellatrix raised her chin imperiously. “But the Irish never give in, never surrender!”

Hermione let out a heavy sigh. “The genealogy report came in, didn’t it?”

Bellatrix grinned, picked up an official looking envelope from the table and removed a thick report from it. “Here it is! Read it and weep!”

Hermione scanned the report, eyes roving over the paper. “Strong Black family roots to found in Ireland, region of Cork, Munster migrating to the British Islands in…”

“There it is!” Bellatrix grinned. “Irish. The Black family is as Irish as Irish can be! All Irish! ALWAYS IRISH!”

The young witch let out a sigh. “Your family migrated to Wales in the 9th century! The 9th! That’s 1100 years ago.”

“Doesn’t matter! Still Irish!”

“So you just randomly decide to be Irish even though the Black family has been moving around the British isles and marrying Brits for the past 1100 years?” Hermione crossed her arms, giving her wife that famed skeptic eye of hers.

Bellatrix, for her part, was not impressed. “I’m sure a British bint such as yourself would be quick and happy to erase my proud Irish history. Shame on you! Shame!”

Hermione closed her eyes and internally counted to ten. Just another obsession, she told herself, just like her obsession with Formula 1 racing, knitting, building model ships, photography and those Tom Clancy books she could even barely understand. It’d pass. It’d pass like all the others.

“So… your own wife is an English oppressor, then?” Hermione raised an eyebrow.

“You can’t help being English I suppose,” Bellatrix then narrowed her eyes. “But I’d be careful when you start up your broom tomorrow.”

Oh, that did it. “Funny, Belle,” said Hermione. “When we were in bed yesterday, I distinctly remember you saying _‘Pet, I sincerely hope that I’m not related to those Irish drunken, ginger potatomunchers. No wonder so many Irish are spread out all over the world when your homeland is that sheer level of shitty_.’ Your words. Not mine.”

“HAH!” Bellatrix shook her head vigorously. “That was me internalizing anti-Irishness after enduring years of pro-British oppressive culture! But now I am woke!”

Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes. “I see your previous obsession with amateur sociology is still bearing fruit. Need I remind you that you live on English soil? That your ancestral manor has stood on English soil for over four hundred years?! If I look at the window, I can see Manchester from here! You’ve always been proud of being Mancunian!”

“That was before I was introduced to the greatness that is Ireland. With its rolling hills, ancient castles, scenic cemetaries and spectacular coasts!” Bellatrix pressed, her hand guiding her cloak in a swishing motion and knocking over a few plastic leprechauns while she was at it.

“You got all those points from the travel brochure I clearly see lying on the coffee table!” Hermione pressed. “You’ve never even been to Ireland in your entire fucking life!”

Bellatrix closed her eyes and smiled. “I’ve always been there in spirit, Hermione. In spirit.”

“Most likely in spirit of a banshee,” Hermione muttered under her breath. “And why are you holding that stick?!”

“Stick?!” Bellatrix scoffed. “This, my ignorant English bint of a wife, is a proper Shillelagh. As any Irishwoman should have!”

Hermione sighed. “That is… obviously just a stick you picked up in the garden.”

“Again you besmirch my heritage and my homeland! Sickening to the core!” said Bellatrix. “I have started legal proceedings to officially change our family name to O’Black.”

“O’Black?!” Hermione’s eyes grew wide, throwing her hands up in frustration. “I don’t want be called Hermione O’Black!”

“Oh, the British oppressor doesn’t want to bear a proud Irish name,” Bellatrix rolled her eyes. “Quelle surprise!”

“O’Black doesn’t exist! It means nothing! It sounds stupid!” Hermione snarled, but quickly sighed in defeat. “You know what? Fine! Forget it! Be Irish! Be Bellatrix O’Black! God, you’re always so insufferable when you’re in your mania phase!”

Bellatrix chuckled. “You simply can’t handle an Irish spitfire like me!”

“GAH!” Hermione yelled and stormed out of the room, through the hallways and into her own office. The one part of the mansion Bellatrix was magically barred to enter and where Hermione could retreat too when she needed a moment of herself. God, she knew that loving and being married to Bellatrix would be a chore at times, but sometimes it was simply too much too handle. She plopped down into her lazy seat by the fireplace and picked up the phone next to it. She dialed the number and waited.

_“Hello?”_

“Hi mum.”

_“What’s Bellatrix done now, dear?”_

Hermione paused a moment. Her mum knew her well.

“She thinks she’s Irish,” said Hermione. “She’s singing rebel songs and now I’ll have to check my broom every day in case there’s a block of semtex taped to the underside.”

_“Oh dear, a particularly bad obsession this time?”_

“Still reeling from the sociology one,” said Hermione. “I wish she’d go back to knitting.”

_“Isn’t that when you had to go to hospital to have a knitting needle removed from your leg?”_

“That was an honest-to-goodness accident, mum. Bella slipped.”

_“While knitting?”_

“While knitting.”

_“These things pass, dear. They have before.”_

“At least dad only has his sci-fi figure collection.”

_“Don’t get me started. So much money spent on overpriced dolls and plastic star-ships.”_

“Still better than having your name legally changed to O’Black.”

Just then, the was a loud banging on the door, along with shouts of Hermione name. Bella, obviously, could not enter Hermione private space, but was eager to get her attention. Hermione told her mum she would call her back, and slipped out of her office, only to find a broadly smiling Bellatrix in the corridor. Apparently, she had tossed the green cloak, but in her hand was a green box. Apparently, the crap souvernirs she had ordered to be delivered also numbered a green model Irish Railways trainset. In one hand was the box, in the other was an old style model locomotive. 

“Hermione!” Bellatrix grinned. “Isn’t this little train just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?! And there’s more model trains! Apparently, you can build your own mini-railroad track! I must find out more.”

Hermione nodded. “You should! It’s fun to build things,” said Hermione. And she meant it. Bellatrix’ obsessions in the matter of creativity were almost always positive. When her wife set her mind to it, she could create beautiful things. Such obsessions lasted longer too. Perhaps she could cultivate this particular obsession and help guide her wife boundless energy into positive, creative fun.

“I think the east wing secondary sitting room would be a great room to devote to model trains, wouldn’t you say?” Hermione said, while Bellatrix nodded as if she were an eager child… because in many ways, she was.


End file.
